Dax left more than one parting gift.

Brushing the leaf with my thumb, I find that the leaf bends like a different type of dance. The movement is simple, yet it is precise and holds an elegance I wouldn't bother to describe to someone. I doubt I could explain well enough to gauge their same level of respect for the tiny veiny leaf.

I place the flattened sample back in its place on the last page of the book, centered on the manila paper.

The olive leaf doesn't nod its point or sway to speak, the flattened specimen only stares back at me, speaking without speaking. The speech, the peace of silence.

I nod in my response, a silent agreement to myself rather than the olive leaf I stare at.

I did need this book.

Dax was right in more ways than one.

Patting the hair atop my head, I do a once-over in the mirror. There are any imperfections of the half bun peaked on my head or the curls cascading down my shoulders like the small waves that ripple off the coast in the city.

It's showtime.

My finger lace around the knob but quickly skip to the loose fabric at my side after the door swings wide.

Immediately, a strong tension slaps me, growing in intensity while I tiptoe down the black hallway, away from the glaring exits and neatly potted plant with a small divot in the dirt.

"Aye! Dawn, you ready? I heardd you got that lead in the fade." My head snaps right, and I'm greeted by a petite girl, a bit shorter, with rich brown eyes that complement her skin in a way I may have envied in my high school years.

I can't recall her name either way and am left grasping thin air. "I did. I didn't expect to."

The girl continues speaking, maybe about something related to the previous lead's injury or pre-performance nerves. Though, I can't find the strength to give a listening ear, not now, at least. At any other time, I'm sure I would have welcomed the aimless chatter.

Ariel whistles from her spot against the chipped chair, right beside the sea of backpacks, the place I need to stash Dax's book in. "You all are on in ten. Be ready!"

Sidestepping the brown-eyed gril, I excuse myself with a crisp. "I'll be back."

My head spins with stretches I could use to warm up, the rehearsals, and the minutes turned to hours before. Zipping up the book proves more difficult than it should be. I'm sure that has to do with the jumbled state of my mind, something I need to clear before stepping on stage.

I glance at Ariel, rightward, she holds eight fingers up, and can't help but smile.

Is this even real?

Blinking, I find myself in a midnight blue costume, not orange, surrounded by people in identical flowing forms.

This is real.

This is real, somehow, by chance.

There is something so wrong and right about that.

From the swift sway of blue to the growing growl of speech, I know time is warping around me faster than I can follow. The beat is hard to track, hard to keep in rhythm with and when my own voice breaks the barrier of time's dance, my words fall into a disgraceful category of speech, almost unintelligible.

"Good luck to you, too" is what I went to say. I have doubts about the what my fellow performer heard and what face they made under the soft blue glow of lights, the announcer's voice drawing us in a blanket of noise. The noise in question is like radio static in my ears.

We're the third act of the night, five in total with intermissions of at least a minute. Though, the schedule is questionable, one that most people hope will work.

Their hope usually works.

I inhale one last time, allowing my eyes to pass over the ten others here.

There should be eleven but chance strikes again.

Rightly, the announcer steps down from their position at center stage. I don't pay any mind to him after but rather focus my attentionono the back of the room where the sound booth lies.

The game is a wait, and I can do nothing but let icy chills sweep across my bare legs and caress my face with frozen fingers.

Quiet spins across the crowd, proclaiming its entrance witha  weighty absence that stirs around the arena.

Slowly, quietly, a thump and trickle drift up in earshot. There, the taller girl leads the group to center stage, her footfalls nearly silent. Inequall increments, my groupwas  in a flowing blur of waves, the tails of our costumes rippling behind each of us.

I enter fifth and position myself a row ahead of those behind m, as if to counterbalance the neat assembly behind me.

The second a piano key strikes, I work myself through a series. First I wave through a contremp and then slide into fifth. Moving in such a way, under the darkened lighting, feels predatory and reminds me of a brise in a way, a motion that appears like I'm breaking my leg against the other.

From there, my feet turned outward and my arms upward. I take the transition to the low level first, sweeping my arms wide and bending my limbs like a tree in the wind.

Gold dusts the stage, directed to the clear. And like moths, we draw closer, spinning our way there. Now in a circle, we intertwine our arms with those closest. Shuffling slowly, we twirl clockwise, increasing our speed and complexity of movements as the tempo bubbles, faster and into a forte.

Our whirling cog disperses, and in a daze, my limbs got about the motions alone–my foot never leaving the floor with the instep, the gesture a simple battements tendus. I instep again, this time a fluid series of dégagés.

I can't tell when my feet start and stop moving, only that time stops for me. Maybe the undulating motions of Ariel's remixed ballet dilutes the time or maybe it's the concerto waltz that carries the dance's narrative.

Still, when I open my eyes under the glowing blue, gold, and white lights, the feeling in my chest remains the same. I'm at peace under the lights. Even if I were here alone, I'm sure the elated sensation would buzz all the same brighter. The only difference between rehearsals and practices remains the events of a few hours.

The proof tumbles in the dances I forgot.

No technically learned developpé or pirouette en dedans can compare to the dance living in my head, playing on repeat.

So, I smile out at the crowd, relaxed, not too concerned about the people who could be watching, the ones that could change my future, but more focused on the moment. With my arms stretching upward, fingertips reaching for eternity,and my feet planted firmly at shoulder width are the only grounded part of my being.

Sounds are mere echoes, and I am a wall to the calamity of noise.

Taking steady steps is like an artwork, a simple piece, but the work seems just as valid as a showpiece I would feel comfortable sharing with the world. The dimming outside light warms my skin andsea-saltedd air circles me in a way the Gulf Coast's wind never did. There's something entirely different about this city, not just the hustling traffic and Hollywood, but I see colors contrasting like never before, in the little details. The amount of light visible at different points of the day or perhaps simply the time difference.

Whichever the fact, there is a difference here. In this city. My heart. My home for the season.

Rocking on a bench, my blue-eyed friend sits, head held in his hands. His troubled gaze is vaguely familiar. In the distant past, I would have sat beside him and tossed questions at him.

Today is different.

I simply lower myself beside Dax and nudge his leather book across the wooden bench.

"I got scared." Dax raises his eyes to mine. "But I couldn't just leave."

"Then don't this time." I reach for his hand but pause, hand hovering over his. "...It's almost been a decade. It's childish to keep holding on—we can start over."

He smiles a little, grasping my hand. "Painting over the canvas, are we?"

"The analogy will suffice." I grin down at our intertwined fingers.

"I'd hope so."

I sincerely hope you enjoyed this journey. Thanks for being here!

Word count: 1,411
Total word count: 16,864